In Fall, you messed up the stone garden in my guts,

with reddened flesh and a roughhewn alibi.

In return, I raked through your fingerprints again

and again, until I dissected skin and hit ice.

Meditation broken, I began melting,

but before my pine needles shell had defrosted,

you have already perforated paper lungs.

My breath next to yours fluttered

like a butterfly amidst snowflakes,

immortalized within its frostbitten skin.

Come spring, I crumbled like woodrot

while you washed away like snow on

dried autumn leaves – a season late and

not enough.